


on the days when the snow falls down

by Sway



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Eggsy-centric, Harry Hart is Dead, Harry Hart is a Little Shit, M/M, Post-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-06-04 20:36:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6674632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sway/pseuds/Sway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eggsy almost forgot. No, he didn’t actually forget, he just almost missed it. His own birthday of all things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	on the days when the snow falls down

**Author's Note:**

> the titles is from “a snow globe” by Pink Martini
> 
> This is my first (and hopefully not last) fic in this fandom. I just watched the movie for the first time last week. Where has it been all my life? Anyway... I hope you enjoy this... let me know :)

Eggsy almost forgot. No, he didn’t actually forget, he just almost missed it. His own birthday of all things.

 

Being busy unravelling an anti-federal organisation in Brussels can do that to a man. Especially when those idiots of EuropeUnified are threatening to contaminate half of central Europe with a dirty bomb.

 

*

 

The townhouse feels incredibly empty when he returns home. His mom probably has a nightshift (he has already asked her twice to leave him her schedule so he can stop worrying) and his sister is staying with her sitter.

 

Calling this place his home still feels alien to him. Especially since he has left everything the way it has been since… He has never had a knack for decorating and it would feel wrong to move a single when…

 

Eggsy grabs a bottle of soda from the fridge and empties half of it in one gulp. He belches, loudly, and part of him takes inane pride in it. While he fell in easily with the Service, he misses unwinding with the boys. Especially on his birthday.

 

When he turns, he finds a plastic container sitting on the counter. It’s a chocolate cupcake from Sainsbury’s. It’s actually a cake that serves eight. Who cares. It’s his favorite.

 

A post-it note sticks to the lid.

 

“Dear Eggsy, happy birthday. Leave me a piece for breakfast. Luv, Mom.”

 

Eggsy grins. “Yeah, not going to happen.”

 

He grabs a fork from the drawer, ready to dig in, when his gaze falls on a package on the dining table.

 

It’s wrapped in brown paper, the cord tied in a perfect bow.

 

Eggsy eyes it dubiously. It’s not from his mom and his friends don’t know his new address. In fact, nobody except his mother and the Service know where he lives. So he steals himself when he steps up to the table to glance at the package.

 

There is no return address, only his in perfect, narrow letters. It hasn’t come in the mail but likely by private messenger.

 

Carefully, like a true super secret agent, Eggsy pokes the package with his fork. 

 

Nothing happens.

 

He tugs at the cord until it comes undone. 

 

Nothing happens.

 

He sits down at the table, regarding the package with a trained amount of suspicious. It could still be a bomb. It could still wipe out an entire city block. He has already made enough enemies for this to become a probability.

 

Deciding he doesn’t believe in such a cliche, he unwraps a cardboard box. He opens the lid and retrieves an object cushioned in bubble wrap. It’s fairly heavy and could just as well be a brick it wasn’t for its rounded shape and wobbly feel.

 

It’s a snow globe. 

 

It’s a miniature Mount Rushmore, the gnarly plastic faces braving a plastic blizzard.

 

There is a sting behind his eyes Eggsy can’t quite explain. There’s is something about this thing… The breath hitches in his throat when he remembers, when he connects the faded dots.

 

Almost frantically he digs into the box once more, producing a small envelope. The paper is as crisp as the finest china, ready to cut into his skin. The envelope holds a card of equal make.

 

He flips it open and small piece of paper sails on the table. This one is different, the paper thin, creased and yellow. It’s a cut-out from a newspaper, and by the state of it this little memento has been carried around for a long time.

 

Carefully he picks up it. Two classifieds are cut in half, the bottom one advertising a flat in Bromley. When he turns the cut-out over, his insides curl into a leaden ball.

 

_Hart, 2nd September, 1960, born to Sophia (nee Brinkley) and Charles Joseph, a son, Harold Charles._

 

Eggsy doesn’t even try to stop the tear from rolling down his cheek. This has got to be sick joke. He tries to convince himself of that when he really knows it isn’t. There’s only two people who know of that particular conversation, one who lost his life and one who ever since tried to fill his shoes.

 

The implication of this being real are even worse than thinking it’s all just a prank.

 

Wiping off the tears at last, Eggsy picks up the card again. It’s written in the neatest cursive he has ever seen since Miss Greyson in elementary school. 

 

_Five minutes ago, you were a millstone around my neck, and now you're a tower of strength, a consort battleship. I like you this way._

 

“Oh you bastard,” Eggsy says to no one or maybe he’s saying it to the stuffed dog, “you fucking bastard.”

 

He wants to rip that card to shreds but of course he doesn’t. 

 

Instead he pours himself a drink. And another. 

 

“You know you could have told me,” he says to the empty room which doesn’t feel quite as desolated anymore now. “You know I wouldn’t have said anything. But I’d known and maybe things wouldn’t be so….” He downs another and makes a mental note to restock the bourbon. “You’re a bloody bastard.”

 

He takes the half empty bottle along with cake and that abominable present and juggles all three upstairs to the bedroom.

 

It used to be Harry’s, sometimes still is when Eggsy opens a drawer or the closet and room smells like Harry for just a moment. 

 

For the smallest of fractions, Eggsy expects him to be there. It would suite him just right.

 

Of course, the room is empty.

 

*

 

Eggsy slumps down on the bed. He has finally ditched the suit, his pistol is not quite so safely stored under his pillow. Now he’s back to sweats that ride a little low on his hips and a t-shirt that’s too big on his frame. Across the chest it’s says ‘OXFORD’ in faded letters.

 

He switches the TV on (which of course wasn’t Harry’s) and the DVD whirls to life, asking if Eggsy wants to resume the playback of “My Fair Lady”. He lets the movie play from the beginning because it’s better this way and starts digging into his birthday cake.

 

J.B. comes trotting to the room and scrambles up onto the bed, using the little makeshift ramp Eggsy has built for him. He curls up by the foot of the bed and immediately starts snoring.

 

The snow globe sits next to Eggsy on the empty pillow on what he has designated to be Harry’s side.

 

When the movie reaches the scene that quote is from, Eggsy’s hand with the fork freezes halfway up to his mouth. He has seen this bit countless times but it has never felt this way before.

 

“You have to come back,” he says, glancing sideways at the snow globe as if he’s trying not to get caught doing so. “Come home. Please.”


End file.
